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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



THE DANCERS 



T 1 1 E 
DANCE R S 

And Other I U and hytid 



II V 



EDITH \l. THOMAS 







RICH VRD G. BADGER 

i 

K>3 



Copyright 1902 by Richard G. Badger 



All Rights Rtstrved 



THE LIBRARY OFl 
OOIK3RE8S, I 

m..A«#A.< xXa No. 

JVWVA- 

I oorv b 



Printed at The Gorbam Press, Boston 



To the A i / homai 

i 



• ntcnts 





it 




- 


- 

• 


- 


Soul of the Vm 


- 


Is it 




- 


- 


- 


' 


The Wohti of:-. W 


35 


ves of i' mo 


- 


Blossom Wind - 


- 


- 


- 


ige - 


- 


ure and Man 


- 


Wi pe is Done 


- 


The Life of a Bird - 


- 


per 


- 


No Nests and No Songs 


- 


ritage of Song 


- 


The Mintage of Sorrow 


- 


Lex Talionis 


- 


•J be Bees in 





In the Childhood of the May - 47 

The Lover s World - -48 

A Lone Woman s Watch-Night - 49 

Forbearance - - - 5° 

The Lining of the Gloves - 51 

How Many a Year - - 53 

Siege - - - -54 

Three Women in War Time - "55 
One Woman s Voice Against War - 56 

The Healing Hand - - -58 

Guarding the Pass - - -59 

Lost^Opportunity - - 60 

At a North Window - -61 

The Guest of a Summer - -61 

The Perfect Hour - - -63 

Beyond Memory - - -64 

The Evening Road - - 65 

Silent Amyclae - - 6j 

The Land of Lost Hopes - -69 

Timon to the Athenians - -72 

Where Goest Thou - - "73 

A Knight Errant of the Soul - 74 

As I Went Forth - - 76 



rl 

77 

1 78 



- 
e Laws 
A Vision oj 1 

Compa - 

yagers - 
Palingenesis - - -go 

The Mistakes oj 
Id Me, Dark A 



!!!!• D f 
A I 

I 

And now a hundre 

The gloam-cv 
Din rcvc tin and h 

The stream slonc in light pursue* 

rg!o\s , 
And slender Dian bends • noiielc 

1! 
Agnus' ancient heart is all alight, 

most shrine; 
ist a bene right 

On frost gendary ; 

His massive doors stand open to the night, 

And thence is heard the Nowcl hymn benign 
The priest his thank-uplifting censer >\vings, 
And, hid alort, the :sponsive - 

111 
•or his flock with fervor intercedes; 
But ort meanly sounds of mirth, outside, 
Do jar on piout souls bent o'er their beads; 

i youthful worshippers their thoughts di\ : 
mporal delights and spirit needs. 
The priest himself no longer will abide 
Hse heedless troop that dance and sing without; 
x> sends to bid them cease their revel-rout. 



i t 



IV 

But Youth and Holiday, conspiring twain! 

Their heady course they will not intermit, 
Impelled like the free steed once given rein. 

Counsel the morning zephyrs as they flit 
In ceaseless play across the bearded grain! 

But Youth, when once of grave decorum quit, 
Stays not his feet, till, of their own accord, 
Grown folly-tired, they sink upon the sward. 

V 

'T was so. The ghostly father might upbraid — 
The merry Dancers heeded not at all; 

But wilder yet the measures that they swayed. 
Then on St. Magnus' self the priest did call; 

In open door he stood, and thus he prayed: 
"Oh, grant thy servant that it shall befall 

To these, who will not hear the word of grace, 

That they shall dance a twelvemonth in this place!" 

VI 

The dawn is red upon St. Magnus' spires, 
His chimes ring in the holy Christmas morn, 

Whilst, thin and light, the smoke from village fires 
Into the windless sky is slowly borne. 

Night-fallen snow the turf, the branch, attires 

In raiment white as wool new- washed and shorn; 

But in the drifted churchyard there's a spot 

The silent loom of Heaven hath mantled not. 



12 



\ II 

*now ha:t c night lot 

No: i the gathering in\ ng, 

VIII 
Margarethe — Bertha — Marie. 

iu break vour mo 
hea 

TV h breathless pleasure part. 

14 Rupert as beguiled? 

ase, lctt benea 

the revelers lei 
Hie day wears late; the nightly ihadei descend. 

I\ 
leigh re peeps out the blushing May, 

Bee more the primrose leans I 
-, glad, the swallow 
To haunts nc autumn she forsook. 

• Iagnua* b 

must she chide — for look! 
:ig still, who danced on Christmas r. 
Iibey re singing itill, :<> suit the dance the. 






"Are ye not hungry? Bread and meat I bring: 
Eat, children; otherwise ye perish soon." 

"Are ye not thirsty? Water from the spring 

I've brought, to slake your thirst this blazing noon." 

Good souls ! down on the ground themselves they fling, 
And weep to see the unregarded boon; 

The summer days are long and fiercely bright: 

Sweet Heaven, would that endless were the night! 

XI 
And now 't is Margarethe! late yestreen 

Thy sister died, and dying, prayed for thee. 
They soon will bring her to the churchyard green; 

Yonder the heaped-up clods thyself may' st see. ,, 
"My Bertha! thou a bride this day hadst been; 

But now for ay unwedded must thou be!" 
"My Marie, little one! come, rest thee, sweet!" 
Meseems, but faster move those choric feet. 



XII 

Whoso to Colewiz Town comes pilgrim-wise, 
Or rider halting but to taste the ale, 

He must the Dancers see with his own eyes; 
Then ready credence lends he to the tale 

How luckless stranger, under twilight skies, 
Did fall in swoon before St. Magnus' pale, 

Believing that the Willis, circling there, 

Advanced to close him in their eddying snare. 



H 



Mil 

he late D -hrill. 

gn, 
The \\ inter ca 

heer, to melt ill. 

The P 

\l\ 
Then answer mikes the got> 

••B 

' ig be) lead not the life 

rail. 

>ild not shrink, though with the keenest ki 
>o t deadly stroke should deal.*' 
Spake then a stranger guest: "I have heard tell 
•rcbertus can reverse the spell; 

\\ 
, the great bishop dwelling at Colop 

The mighty Hercbertus, he alone 
^ solves the charm a wizard 
*es the curse in -udden anger thrown." 
Thus talk good folk until, with droning tongue, 
St. Magnus' midnight bell bids all around 

hose who trcaJ. enchanted ground. 






XVI 

It is the winter, and the little town 

Once more is buried to its eyes in snow; 

And still a few last, loitering flakes come down, 
Albeit, in the western heavens low, 

A rosy smile redeems the zenith frown. 

And touched with rose the dreaming faces show 

Of them who, never worn, retire, advance, 

Singing the song that times their mazy dance. 

XVII 

Yet is St. Magnus' ancient heart alight, 

Glad, warm, and glowing, to his inmost shrine. 

For, if God wills it so, this Holy Night 
There shall be wrought a miracle divine, 

As those of eld were wrought, in all men's sight. 
Therefore, devoutly let each one incline; 

And if there lurk a secret thought of ill, 

That thought dislodge, and entertain good will. 

XVIII 
Down the long aisle he comes, that saintly man 

From far Cologne, our comfort to restore. 
His face, attentive, all the people scan — 

That blessing smile, the prophet-looks of yore. 
Close follows him the priest who laid the ban 

(Since then advanced in years a double score), 
With piteous livid cheek and bowed frame — 
God wot his sin hath brought its lustral flame! 



\l\ 

N «U, 

a* brethren «.• the 
In rub: aborcd pu, *c. 

hit wis not wmc I 
Bi ronouiur >c. 

un aught but ; ine 

hapless Dancers fi 

Now htth he crossed the threshold ot the do 
Now, silently, in hushed, expectant bands, 
the torch-lit dusk the people pour; 

us, where he stands, 
They throng, with u - growing more. 

He nothing holds in his grave, : hands 

Save the bent staff that shephcrvis used, ot 
To bring the strayed ur weakling to the told. 

XXI 
That staff from charm and malison sets free. 

That staff no greater miracle hath done, 
In all the ages past, than now ye see. 

Behold the Dancers! — how he smites each one, 
And, smiling, gently saith, ■ 'Absolved be 

From henceforth, thou my daughter, thou my mm 
- song dies out; and slack the eel, 

•vhen, unbanded, turns the spinning-wheel. 



XXII 
And now, in many a quavering, smothered call, 

'Tis "Margarethe — Bertha — Marie, love!" 
And "Franz, my boy!" The dreamer stands in thrall. 

Down from the disenchanted boughs above, 
Dislodged, the feathery snow-wreaths lightly fall, 

Like shedded plumes. At the cold touch thereof, 
The dreamer starts into this waking world, 
And tears, unware, lie on the cheek impearled. 

XXIII 
Their year-long dance at last is done. But they, 

Young creatures all, they can remember naught 
Save that in Fairyland they were a day; 

A piper piped, and his sweet tunes they caught. 
To this, "It bodes no good," the gossips say. 

But at his word, who such release hath wrought, 
All hearts uplift, and put away all fears; 
And the sad priest throws off his load of years. 

XXIV 

Now might be seen the Yule fire blazing bright — 

Unfailing oasis in winter's waste; 
And now, the joyous revel at its height, 

Beneath the Druid branch the guests have paced. 
Ere one can think, St. Magnus sounds good night. 

Good night ! Once more the spiced sweet wine they taste 
Then gleams awhile the lantern's wandering spark; 
It sinks, a homeward star — and all is dark. 



18 



I 



IM [ANTED R 

A /.. ' //.;/.' I 

I 

r a talc oi 
I latel) read a trcasi; 
a hose legend -haun 

•nc. 
p the starlit d- 
the dead leaves eerie converse 
*ugh the rich Conjurer 'i Kingdom with mc n 
:ig there, the story shall be told 

I of old. 
11 

In Leinster in 

There was no maiden of the countryside 

But (allows (such a night as this!) 

her fortune tried. 
The bursting nut upon the hearth she plu 

ci lighted candle she would bear, 
Gazed in her glass with eyes intent and u 

ngs, like a witch's pra 
She sowed three ro\s> or nothing on the en 



Ill 

All rites had little Barbara performed, 

Yet nothing did she see, and nothing hear; 

Her busy thoughts soon into dreamland swarmed. 

The rosy apple lay, untasted, near 

For him who, ere another rounded year, 

Should taste Love's feast with her. And now the wind 

(As on this very night) with sighings drear, 

Spake close beneath her latticed window-blind 

Such dream wise things as it hath spoke time out of mind. 

IV 

Why moans our little sister? "Rest thee, rest! 

Fear naught." Soon careful arms have clasp'd her round, 

And a soft cheek against her own is pressed. 

For thus, since childhood, Barbara hath found 

In mother-love with sister's love upbound, 

Swift respite from the terrors of the night. 

But now, what sleep so restless, yet so sound, 

That not for touch or tone will take its flight, 

Or aught at all except the broadcast morning light! 



"My precious one, such troubled dreams were thine; 

Yet, though I strove, I could not waken thee." 

"Dear mother-sister — dearest sister mine — 

Methought an unknown guide did beckon me 

Far, far from here. My will I could not free; 

I needs must follow through weald and waste. 

Outworn I reached a manor fair to see; 

Outworn, alone, through a long hall I paced, 

That was with many a speaking, stately portrait graced. 

20 



\ I 

•>Scd a sta . 

n 'he hearth 
eld ■ little fitful flu 
trembling 
When, 
A voice pron< e and name, 

.tre 
That I mav tra^e thee when thou goctt I know not where!' 

VII 
il and a sinful thing — 
But over me cign, stern comm.r 

I must ol the birthday ring, 

D name engra\ :i the hand — 

The ring, thai *nd, 

;i the marble n ^h. 

The »ut the tailing bn 

Then were the tour walls darkling earth and si 
And, once again, till dawn a wanderer was I. 

VIII 
•'But, Agatha, thou art not vexed at mer 
Thou dost not mourn the ring? 'Twas mine last 
This morning it is gone, as thou canst ser 

, darling, thou no reason hast to grieve: 
I may not tell thee why, but I be 
That ere another winged vear is r 

tfhtest threads tor thee will Fortune v 
So spake her sister, sage otlook and tone, 

; iin her own. 



IX 
The Winter long is over in the land, 
And mellow is the furrowed soil, and quick 
With hopeful promise to the toiler's hand. 
He, too, that toils not, leaning on his stick, 
Is cheered to see the bean-flowers set so thick, 
And thick the blossoms on the orchard bough. 
How sweet the air! Hath any soul been sick? 
Oh, let that soul drink health from beauty now; 
Stand forth beneath the sky; unknit the careworn brow! 

X 

"Say, children, if ye guess, what aileth him — 

The stranger who oft leans beyond the hedge 

To see our budding roses? Yet so dim 

His eye, he knows them not from ragged sedge! 

The black ox's hoof hath trod on him, I pledge 

My hopes beyond the grave, he seeketh aye 

For that which flees him to the world's far edge! 

Come, children, tell me what the gossips say: 

Your grandsire nothing hears — the old at home must stay!' 

XI 

Good Agatha replies with playful look: 
"Let Barbara speak. And if she be the rose 
(To us the sweetest flower in any nook — 
Or tame or wild — that in our Leinster grows) 
Hath drawn the stranger to our garden-close, 
With what true eye hath he the best discerned." 
(A blush-rose, on the moment, springs and blows!) 
"Ay, sister, grandsire, all that I have learned, 
I freely tell you; since deceit I always spurned. 

22 



XII 

he liked a rov, in i iptkc 
I ga\ <o jiJ i look 

>n he pasievl. 
Again, is I was scirchir 

acclct that had fallen | 
eipcd the he 

XIII 

grindiir hat, 

htm sta\ 
:>on the old oik bci it. 

pike of losses other's quest 

4i ever hi he was blest 

.ird sight, sivc tor the thing he sought — 
ing not lost, 1 posscssc 

He had red naught; 

But much, in truth, hen of" whit he slid hive 

though' 

\l\ 

his time closed arc the ears of age, 
And lid-fast arc the eyes. And now, alone, 
Spake cirelcsslv good Agatha the sage: 

eat prudence, little Barhe, thou hast sho- 
But I have heard the stranger well is knov 
That gentle is his birth, and the estate 
Is broad I h singly h iwn. 

aid his health hath surf 
•some this air; so he prolongs hi 



XV 

Then subtly did fond Agatha contrive: 

"Thou doest but a charitable deed, 

If from his soul this withering gloom thou drive. 

Lightly along the self-same channel lead 

Thy talk. Say that thou gav'st his words good heed; 

Since back to thee thy bracelet he could bring, 

Thou would' st, once more, consult his wizard rede, 

For thou hast lost a yet more precious thing — 

Thy sister's gift to thee — the name, too, on the ring!" 

XVI 

"That dare I not — !" broke in the little maid; 

"For well thou knowest how the ring was lost, 

And all the tricks at Halloween I played. 

Alas, those charms were wrought at heavy cost, 

To be, as I have been, a homeless ghost — 

A shadow of myself — of self bereft !" 

"Then, child, tell only what importeth most — 

A ring of thine was somewhere lost, or left; 

And thou, once more, art fain to seek his counsel deft." 

XVII 

The Rose sends challenge to the flower- world all: 

What bloom like mine — at once both proud and sweet? 

Unstored do the Rose's burning accents fall 

Upon the twain within the garden-seat. 

Yet, what can make the Rose's color fleet 

From a young maiden's cheek — what sudden stress? 

What words are these a young man may repeat, 

While light springs up in eyes long lustreless? 

But come, let us o'erhear — 'twere idle, still to guess? 

2 4 



\\ III 

It ib 

■tie Birluru bro* hid the th 
ted bv her sister's iul 
Since he had found hr 

• 

So great ■ wizard migh 

«kC. Intent, 

eak thou the truth, 

:p thine eves, and thev the truth shall ^pcak, 
it muft he that slender ring of gold 
Bounds the whole world of hap] eck. 

me when thou this ring didst lose, and eke 
All circumstance that did the time itl 

is then the Rose's color fled her check; 
But since her tongue to guile she could not K 
She told straight tor. '. i the end. 

XX 

* thou hast spoken truth, and naught beside" 
He said, "Til speak the living truth to thee. 
That night some charms of Halloween I tried, 

lus to do by a blithe comp.r 
In mine old hall, tar in the -ce. 

The charms pertormed, I thought of then DO DM I 
cemed it strange that sleep came not to me; 
And as the rising u >or, 

I watched with half-shut eyes the firelight on the 8 



XXI 

"Then glidingly, and noiseless as a dream, 
A figure stoled in white, with floating hair, 
Touched faintly by the embers' fitful gleam, 
Approached the fireplace and stood wavering there — 
Stood piteously, with tender feet all bare, 
And tender palms reached out above the coals 
(As they had borne too long the frosty air). 
Then, I remembered me the time — All Souls, 
When visions vanish as the hour of midnight tolls! 

XXII 
"Already was the clock upon the stroke, 
Already had the vision turned to go 
When, in a voice I scarcely knew, I spoke, 
Desiring that the presence should bestow 
Some sign, or constant pledge of truth, to show 
When daylight should to disbelief incline. 
The vision faded. On the mantel, lo! 
This ring I found. And surely, it is thine, 
And surely, maiden, both the ring and thou art mine!" 

XXIII 

Needs not to say what afterwards befell — 

How smiled the mother-sister sage and dear, 

When came the fine confession, guessed full well; 

Or how, before the rounding of the year, 

She saw — through many a rainbow-lighted tear — 

Her darling pace the aisle, a happy bride! 

Nay ! — rather must I counsel all who hear 

Leave juggling wiles of Halloween untried, 

Lest no such powers benign your doubtful venture guide! 

26 






rm grai 

• 

>k upon the rushing str^ 
Alike they stand to tike th- 

onset's y retB. 

ath them. 

* its quiet gleam, 
Kheinstein ind :<> Rc:> hemtein, his bell 

\iries welding peal and funeral knell. 

rarer, as the bird or arrow flies, 

rs to thotc of Rcichenstein, 
Thin either* s bastions to the church thit lies 
in the nu g chine. 

So neir those windov. 

when a c dumb and skies ire gold, 

mutuil speech divine, 
converse Kuno hold, 

But Fite hid lessoned them to be more vrilC :han bold! 

To Gcrdi the I amc a gi* 

A birthday gift from Reichcm:cin he came, 
A letter round his neck: As true as s:. 
Hf % 11 fail thte not — Fidele is his name. 
Thus Kuno wrote, tanning more bright the flame 
ong-increasing fancies — how the steed, 

ch his own hand to one high hest did tame, 
Should bear her, serve her, though himself, indeed, 
Might not so much as touch her 

C that birthday morn, his dear last hope 
ij stolen hence; tor at the trial-tilt, 



He one had met, with whom he might not cope — 
Dark Kurt, whose hand was ever on the hilt, 
Prompt still to deeds of violence and guilt, 

To him the prize, old Sifrid's daughter, passed. 
Sweet Gerda! Many tears her blue eyes spilt, 

Her heart was holden, and its doors were fast; 

Yet what avails? Her father's will in iron was cast. 

The bridal day was set — too soon arrived! 

The Castle maidens robed her as they would — 
In veil and vestment by deft hands contrived — 

In gems and laces of the antique mood. 

In splendor tired — yet in their midst she stood 
Like some fair chosen creature without stain, 

That, thus bedecked, in early times and rude, 
Was led unto the altar to be slain, 
Where the lean priest stood waiting pitiless and fain. 

And flesh had failed her in that deathly hour, 

But that, to Mother Mary she had knelt, 
At dawn of day, to ask her saving power; 

And, rising up, a nameless cheer had felt, 

That even yet within her bosom dwelt. 
Joyous she seemed, whom sorrow late consumed; 

But, here and there, an eye did sudden melt, 
Of such as judged to madness she was doomed, 
Unless, ere long, a broken heart should be entombed! 

One dartling glance toward the neighboring cliff! 
For well her heart divined who watched her there; 

Then spake she gayly, "'Twere great favor if 
Mine own good gray my maiden self might bear 
Once more to Clement's shrine. ' ' They grant her prayer. 

28 



the sell || 

lifting crag or 
Beheld the wedding guests ride 
. in their \an a> 
Put mortal speech, his love 4inl sorr I — 

d a fair pi 
Nor knew he 

red. 

But as keen thought its many edges tunu 

• 
ndrous sight dii 

. as the bridal 

i ight, the gray hor 
Strikes with sharp hoove 

he makes, the while his rider he 
The welcome call «>r waters, deep and hu. 
nng to death no hand i 

N hind save Heaven's that death can n tall, 

But, reared to plunge, the pacer wheels 

though from tar aloft, a master call 
He heeds — a voice whereof he knows the 
i lo! with Hying fc nd on bo . 

>ad no charger's hoof before hath traced, 
He takes the steep, as it were level ground! 






To Reichenstein he mounts! "No time to waste!" 
('Tis Kuno's voice) "Let down the drawbridge in all 
haste/ ' 

Soon, in the Castle's court, Fidele stands, 

With quivering, foam sprent-flank, with drooping head. 
Unclasped from his neck are Gerda's hands, 

And from his back his burden dear is shed. 

Can ye not guess what tenderest words are said 
(What love-names, also, for the gallant gray)? 

But it behooves me to recount, instead, 
How Kuno orders all in armed array, 
To meet whatever foes the castle's walls essay. 

But even as the hurried order goes, 

A gathering rumor runs about the place, 
And soon the barred and massive doors unclose, 

And henchmen four, with slow, regardful pace, 

Bear hither Sifrid. He, in the mad chase, 
Unseated from his horse, 'mid rocks was thrown. 

But he, while suffering sharpens all his face, 
Is fain to speak: "My children, I atone: 
Ye shall each other's be; and both be as mine own!" 

Thus spake sweet Gerda's father in remorse 

Nor knew his vow was loosed the while he spake. 
Though even then, the Kurt — an unwept corse 

Down the swift Rhine his drowned way did take. 

But, while the new-found joy cures past heartache, 
The gray approaches, and with neck a-droop 

(As one but glad or sorry for their sake), 
Pushes his loving way into the group, 
While a brave cheer runs round the Castle's yeoman troop! 

3o 



NIK SOI i i HI H 

Whenever about the fields I 
%oul of the violet haunt - 

1 look — there is never I lei! to be » 
In the patched grass is no thread of peCRJ 
But I walk as one who would chide 
Lest they trample the hope of something if 
Here cmn no flower be blooming, I know — 
:hc soul of the .»unts mc 

Again and again that thrilling breath, 
Fresh as the lite that is snatched out 
Keen as the blow that Lore might deal 
Lest a spirit in trance should outward steal — 
trilling thai breath, *o vital that blow — 
The soul >let haunts me 

Is it the blossom that slumbers as 
•r the leaf-mould dank and M 
And visits in dreams the wondering air 
rcof the passing sweetness I srw 
is it the flower shed long ago? 
The soul of the violet haunts me so! 



3» 



IS IT SPRING AGAIN IN OHIO 

Is it Spring again in Ohio? 

Is the sleep of the Winter over? 
Far in the heavens, the bluebird, 

Low in the marshland, the plover, 
Anear, in the orchard, the redbreast, — 

Wherever one looks, the hover 
Of wings — wherever one listens, 

The note of the homing rover! 
Is it Spring again in Ohio? 

Is it Spring again in Ohio, 

And the sleep of the Winter over? 
Blooms in the woods the wild service? 

Where Zephyr bendeth above her, 
Gleams the faint dawn of the wind-flower? 

Breaks from the turfy cover 
The tender star of the thistle, — 

The dew-cradling leaf of the clover? 
Is it Spring again in Ohio? 

Is it spring again in Ohio, 

And the sleep of the Winter over? 
Are these the rare days — O my comrade — 

Blithest for homing rover? 
Once would we forth — and follow 

Far as the cry of the plover — 
By stream, and by greening pasture, 

By fallow, and breezy cover! 
Is it Spring again in Ohio? 






I tnij 

laluting: 

! . 
II I. •• W 



HE \RT BR v - SPRING 

:n the ctrlicst violets <■: 

est southward slot 
When the <-rc>» in .ver slim 

Palely light the wood path dim, 
il s wee; and keen 
• the Mill- il seen, 

When that blitbe forerunning air 
Breathes more hope than thou canst bear, 
Thou, O buried, broken h 
Into quivering life shall itti 
Thou shah ask the flov, 

erctorc waken these — and these, — 
Soulless gazers on the light, 
Wherefore lead these up from night, 
And not send a thrilling call 

:ng eyes more sweet than all." 



33 



MIDNIGHT BREAD 

Above the canon of the street 

The gleaming files of Heavens climb: 

One almost hears his own heart beat — 
So silent and so dead the time! 

Far, far away the tide has drawn, 

That, sounding, filled this canon's cleft; 

The city's myriad soul is gone, 
And but its empty frame is left. 

But what is yonder moving line — 
Scarce moving line, in human guise, 

Near by where Grace Church lifts her sign 
That fostering care is in the skies? 

One — two — the bell-tower now has dealt, 
'Tis late, but later yet shall be 

Ere this slow moving line shall melt 
Which nightly Heaven's watchers see. 

These are my brothers scorned of Fate — 
My brothers of the Empty Hand: 

Their turn in silence they await, 

Patient, half-sleeping, as they stand. 

Into the dark, at length, they fade, 

Bearing their dole of Midnight Bread; 

And when the hunger-pang is stayed 

God knows where each shall lav his head! 



34 



Birc «rc my walk, 

•ool ! 
Hark, how the \\o\\cs <>• • 

15 the sound I heard a huma 

fire on mv hearth ^ht 

:hout is the N 
Blanching with fear from C4rth to iky — 
I ot the wind rush 

:, they arc fell, and they never tire, 
But they shun the ligl blazing fire. 

So bk portion, so sate am I. 

js the sound I heard a human cr j 

They have broken the leash that held them back, 

he whole world dreads the fierce, wild pack! 
To shelter, to shelter, let all things fly — 
Hark, how the wolves of the wind rush 

Matters not where, the heath, or the town, 
Whatever they meet they're trampling down: 
of the victim they're draining dl 
is the sound 1 heard a human CfJ 

The sound, too plain it rises again, 
The myriad wailing ot outcast men: 
In the pith ot the pack the en lie — 

Hark, how the v 






Who is it knocks at the door of my heart? 
Open I must, though in terror I start, 
At the blue-cold lip and the hollow eye. 
(The sound I heard was a human cry!) 

Whoever hath shelter, whoever hath store, 
Slide the bolt of the grudging door; 
Be the poor with us, lest they should die — 
Hark, how the wolves of the wind rush by ! 



THE DOVES OF THE DUOMO 

Said the brooding dove to her mate, 

' 'Whenever the great bell tolls 
(And it tolls both early and late) 

The good folk pray for their souls.' ' 

"What matters to thee and to me? 

We have no souls, men say, 
(And wiser are men than we;) 

So, therefore, we need not to pray/' 

"Then," said the brooding dove, 

"Let us pray — let us pray for their souls- 

For the city we so much love — 
Whenever the great bell tolls!" 



36 



• WIND 

Is th 

. light o'crlaps the 

. 

:hc Blo^ 

Merc, ill unscc 
• 
But the heirs the 
And the bee within the \ honeyed bet 

trees, to shi' 
their sn 

ie leans, to look and listen, 
When the Blossom gins to bl 

:is but the lightest sighing, 
ng not the downball from the grass; 
But the s he place d it, 

n the hour of Beauty soon mutt pass! 
petal fa 
:he earliest flake of snow — 
he bough its comrades tremble, 
he Blossom Wind begins to blow 



37 



Borne along the hollow fragrant tempest, 

Drifts the orchard Spirit to her doom. 

Faintly heard, a fairy dirge is chanting, — 
Faintly glimpsed her face amid the eddying bloom. 

Blown afar the fair pavilion; 

Then the rain comes soft and slow; 

Sober green the flower replaces, 
When the Blossom Wind has ceased to blow. 



38 



I 

All the 

Mist-dru; 

Mi, 
I m here to praise the | 
I, nunc cir tttUfl 

its taint communis 
I, it> ning, 

;ig 

1 will praise tru- 
ll 
All the v 

attention 
the bud that ne'er uncloses — 
Flower of dim, irfld gentif 

Said the poet: 
••Let the uorld praise on" 
I the bud that ne'er uncloses! 

Though its heart deep 

Never bee has cn:r 

Fancy, tired or roaming, 

In itl violet gloam 

Sinks down and r 






Ill 

All the world pays court to famed ones 

High in honor seated. 
Who will praise the great unnamed ones 

And the brave defeated? 

Said the poet: 
"Let the world pay court to famed ones, 
I will praise the great unnamed ones, 
Sing their viewless trophies — 
Word their silent strophes — 
I their own true lover; 
Till the world discover 
These its great unnamed ones!" 



MIRAGE 

Treasure the shadow. Somewhere, firmly based, 
Arise those turrets that in cloud-land shine; 

Somewhere, to thirsty toilers of the waste, 
Yon phantom well-spring is a living sign. 

Treasure the shadow. Somewhere, past thy sight, 
Past all men's sight, waits the true heaven at last: 

Tell them whose fear would put thy hope to flight, 
There are no shadows save from substance cast. 






40 



\ND M \\ 

g of the am nging Io\ - 

the front ot the m< 

11] speak • of the rapture I 

the 

v hut repeatcth the liquid |lfl 
the 

the flame of the rote is not brighter, in token, as ■ 
passes I 
I the song of the i ugh his little heart with 

m the answering npturc ol nun DO quickening impulse 
shall take. 

O drops of :h ot the thorn! () singing 

bir 
\ere never a mutual tongue, is there never a common 

rein to give thanks, wherein to give praise, from the 
hearts ye have filled? 

i the pure distilmcnt \cr 

tning, has spilled? 



4' 



If but one moment, in all the swift season giddy with 
change, 

We that are God's one creation, yet strangers, might be 
less strange! 

But this is the pain of" the pleasure — the bitter-sweet which 
man drains: 

Unconscious-glad Nature unconscious of man forever re- 
mains! 



WHEN HOPE IS DONE 

Who turns away from gazing at the sun 

Sees its dusk images fill all the air. 
It is not otherwise when Hope is done: 

Her darkling phantoms make the heaven of Despair. 



4 2 



I'll: I BIRD 

.>ns arc ti 

>som a tl 

thine c 

power 
M sets thec idt] 

Thou the tide and the hour 

. or turn I 

- the world th :ig. 

Thou herald ot rapture and light. 
Thou wca\cst a home oung — 

DC but thyself hath the sleight. 

rid thou an gone, 
\o shall say where is thy re 
ipturc and light are withdrawn 
Into some Heaven-side nest. 

For who \\ hath beheld 

Where, stricken, v. 
Haat thou not been, from ot old, — 



45 



A LIGHT SLEEPER 

By his lov'd nest and hopes, sits fast asleep 
The sedge-bird in some dewy covert deep; 
Throw the least pebble there, he quickly wakes 
Quickly the long bright day's refrain uptakes. 

So is it with the Muse's slumbering child; 
His couch is made upon Parnassus wild; 
If Sleep depart, Song springs within his breast, 
And wakes the old melodious unrest. 



"NO NESTS AND NO SONGS" 

Why are ye silent, ye dryads of thicket and grove? 

Perchance from the fowler ye hide and brood o'er 
your wrongs. 
"Nay; careless and songless at close of the season we rove, 

Mute are we all, after springtime — no nests and no songs!* ' 

Wise were ye ever, ye dryads of thicket and grove ! 

To the fullness of life and its struggle all joyance belongs: 
And we — when no longer we strive, as blithely we strove — 

Is it so with ourselves as with you — no nests and no 
songs? 



44 



I o? the GoddcN 

ling on •< part, md pitting desr, — 

ire the P 

\ blended \ 
regions where 

throng: 
P emi vc the poet's 1< s ^ng. 



. know ye not where tire the soil huh ih<« 
One moon shall 
re the sv- » cr shall have star; 

:>eauty all the chastened gro 

ed 

soul hath, alto, some such hattlc-rlcld — 
It hath the vintage, too, ol Thrasymene! 






LEX TALIONIS 

Say the finny folk who glide in the stream, 
"We could be happy the whole day long 

Were it not that in sun or in shadow we dream 
Of pinions that hover to do us wrong !" 

Say the people whose pathways are through the sky, 
"We could sing our songs, we could brood our nests, 

Were it not we have seen our fellows lie 

With a strange red plume on their silent breasts!' ' 

The fowler mused as he bagged the game, 
"How careless and free were man's estate 

Were it not for the fear he scarce can name — 
Were it not for the arrows of lurking Fate!" 



THE BEES IN FLORIDA 

To that soft, floral land, where lurks no storm, 
Where hides the quest of Ponce de Leon, 

Bring from the north your murmuring, busy swarm — 
No sweets they'll hive where wintry want is none! 

So with the Muse's child; where pleasures are, 
Where new delights arise, unnamed, unsought, 

No song he makes for days and ears afar, 

But hovers idly in the sunshine of his thought ! 



+ 6 



In the childhood 

But so s>. 

Tha jrc thr\ 

. U 

ij ! 

Tb I there is • 

In th M ty, — 

ICUTC am! : — 

Icfa is dearer \ 

>uld destr 
Pleasure, also, we must ill 

There is joy and there is pain 
In the childhood ot the M 
There arc thought- not chain, 

they hold ethcrc. 

er — beaded rain — 
Halt" conceal them, halt bet: 

Did : by girl U 

Halt-rcmcm* 
c can never quite dest: 
re them welcome, give them way, — 
Subtle pain and subtler 

In the childhood of the M 



♦7 



THE LOVER'S WORLD 

They were all more subtle than I, 

Who moved in blind rapture among them, 
"That our notes are new, we deny, 

A thousand times over we've sung them, 
Be it thrush, or linnet, or dove!" 
"Nay, but ye birds, one and all, 

Now sing, with a rounded completeness, 
From matin to vesper call; 

Where got ye that marvelous sweetness?' ' 
"From the voice of the soul of thy love!" 

They were all more subtle than I, 

Who knelt in rapt worship before them, 
"The roses of summers gone by, 

Didst thou so praise, so adore them, 
And set them all roses above?" 
"Nay; but ye are not the same — 

Ye bloom with a beauty supremer; 
Where got ye that delicate flame, 

Half veiling your petals?" "O dreamer. 
From the light of the soul of thy love. n l 



4 8 



mum NIGH i 

\ the 

! — 
All shape chc <>ac, 

; ,cr attic nook above i >^ 

to its pleasures 
B\ one lone limp i slender glut she fillc 

AiKi \\c. 

The while she mused with a 

Tnert was • joyoui time — 

:imc, how long, how long , 

r'i house . *er 

The laughing guests had sped the parting \ c*r . . . 

riow, from bclfrv high, 
The chime rang out against a tingling 

s hile the crystal solitude grew tense, 
raised the chalice clear 

mute pledging intimate and dear 
irank to those she loved, ot sundered lot; 

She drank to those she loved — but who forgo: 
memory, Memory's only recompense 
:rank to those whose lips in dust are d 
Whoae ipirits, as she mused, with kindling etc, 
Seemed leaning from the starlit vague immense, 
Though veiled to lei 



4V 



And if, of these one face all peerless shone, — 
One face, — long-lost in youth, such spell it wrought 
Her own grew younger with so dear a thought! 
Thus, lonely, yet forever not quite lone 
Her clear face lit from far within the soul, 
With Love that temporizeth not with Doubt — 
With memories deathless while the long years roll, 
She watched the Old Year out. 



FORBEARANCE 

He said — oft questioned why his wit's keen lance, 
Strikes right and left, his bosom-friend perchance, 
While traitor and deserter scathless go — 
"We speak no evil of the dead, you know! ,, 



5° 



the Itttd c— 

M 
Rece i ved 4 > 

her gloves so fine, I . 

1-fillcvi and plump ucrc the 
re — 1 purse uj> filled with gold 

I at cich 1 ambush roll 

It shot a laughing g 

ough to say: On N 

earnest thought and sp< 
A client fair her tec would . 
>uit well-won at court. 

A dan x>, there was 

f days of dainty hood!) 

shown m) rausc, 
Hive proof of gratituci 

The glistening itoi 

I read the dainty note; 
60 took his subtle pen in ha 
Al rote: — 



"Lady, upon a New Year's Day, 

No gift of grace we spurn; 
But, while your gloves I keep for aye, 

The lining I return.' ' 

Thus, in the gracious days of old, 
They spake in gracious phrase: 

'Twas golden speech from hearts of gold- 
Ah f bring me back those days! 



MO \R 

<r I've loved thee- 

4 \ear, 
oac feasor. | — 

The | 

n. 
U I've loved thee, 

:ie; 
And yet, the golden sphere 
Of the full harvest moon 
In the sad east may dawn! 

How nun. a year I loved thee — 

\ ! •. many a year! 
So late to love art thou, 
Then love me more tor 
Beyond the desert drear, 
Be fount and oasis 

iden hough ! 



S3 



SIEGE 

If I should come knocking, knocking 

At the door of your little heart, 
You in soft haste would be locking 

The portal that kept us apart; 
And then you would sit at some window, on high, 
— Would smile, from your turret — and even defy ! 

But the Loves to my aid would be flocking — 

Would besiege you on every side; 
And soon would your turret be rocking, 

And soon would the portal swing wide; 
And the Loves, my true liegemen, will hasten to bring 
The royal sweet captive down to their king. 

So, instead of such smiling and mocking, 
There might even be sighs on your part, 

— As on mine — if I should come knocking 
At the door of your little heart ! 

Why not a truce? — Oh! why not then yield, 

And peace, with a kiss, at the doorway be sealed? 



54 



THRRF u < »W 

I 

g lipt : 
•I have brothers thrc 

• | 
If it strange that the \\4: i mm horn- 

II 
er, brothers, « 
I would £ uc them all at n 4II! 

one to sc 
share in the glorious war is snu 

III 
But the third arose with face ig 

•'Mine are a hundred thousand strong, — 
man meets the foe, — 
And my heart's in the war the whole day long!" 






ONE WOMAN'S VOICE AGAINST WAR 

I 
The voice of my sisters I hear (Oh voice of the summer 

leaves ! 
Oh voice of the murmuring waters! Oh, light if it laughs 

or it grieves!) 
They are sending you forth, O men; they are bidding you 

arm straightway; 
But they see not, as I can see, men biting the dust in the 

fray, 
They see not, as I can see, men pouring the blood of the 

brave — 
And the craven, at home, survives, while the hero sleeps 

in his grave! 
They see not, as I can see — that their daughters' daugh- 
ters shall wed 
With the sons of the craven, born of the blood too pale 

to be shed! 
They see not, the money-changers unscourged in the 

temple remain, 
When those that were fearless to strike — the best of the 

nation are slain; 
For the veins of a race once shrunken, the hearts of the 

race beat low, 
And the valor we worshipped — a flame unfed — no longer 

shall glow ! 

II 
The voice of my sisters I hear: **We offer our dearest, our 

all, 
Father ', and brother, and lover, for country, if need be, to 

fall! 

56 



Wkdt m$re <sn we fliige than 

, SS tt'JfV 

violate 1:\ 
Not • hiir of their heads shall be stir- the 

Thev shall MM luni'.ui^h U pritCN viull earth be 

forgot! 

the. 

hem be hushed to remember the breast o! the mar 
their sh. 
Not till her 111 .ittlc's sh 

soul ot a woman shall wakei the 

ige! 

HI 
The voice of »rgive them, 

who arc the 
For they know not the words they utter, sending ve forth, 

though v era. 

I have none rth; but, for sword?- 

doomed to tl 
Tears were n rink, were :he blood of the meanest 

out-pour 
ike, or asleep, I should see the dark stream with the 
aking flight — 
The damp of the death-dew beading — the eve without 
vision or light ! 

sisters — they see not the sight, or their lips would 
be holden of speech, 

he voice of their hearts, ever sleepless, for "peace," 
and but "peace!" would beseech. 



THE HEALING HAND 

As some faint, rosy cloud at even drifts 

O'er lands of death and wild volcanic rifts, 

She came (the battle past); she bent her head; 

"Thou art my country's foe, and mine," she said, 

"But yet my human brother, though at strife; 

So must I balm thy wounds and give thee back thy life !' ' 

So well did she the healing balm outpour 

She gave him back his life — Gave she no more? 

As some faint, rosy cloud at even blends, 

Blends with the rosy sea, as it descends, 

Love touched the heart as Pity bent the head; 

"Thou art my country's foe — not mine!" she softly said. 



58 



G\ IG THE ?A 

Thr 

hand, — 

ight. — 

uin at a sign to disband, 
c gone at a brca:h, — 
The 

ig the Pass that leads to the I .and of the Sh^ 
] ' ith! 

All the long night, O beloved, I listen II 
pla 
There is none that -not one; but single of 

hand I must fight; 
n the stars that were wont to look down 
sioning y 
Now brighten and glow with desire to l heaven 

thj 
And the wind at the casement saith, 
-ase the loved soul!" — I am one against many, — 
alone in the night, 

arding the Pass that leads to the land of the 
Death! 



59 



LOST OPPORTUNITY 

"There is a nest of thrushes in the glen; 

When we come back, we'll see the glad young things," 
He said. We came not by that way again; 

And Time and thrushes fare on eager wings ! 

"Yon rose" — she smiled — "but no, when we return, 
I'll pluck it then." 'Twas on a summer day. 

The ashes of the rose in Autumn's urn 

Lie hidden well. We came not back that way. 

We do not pass the selfsame way again, 
Or, passing by that way, nothing we find 

As it before had been; but death, or stain, 
Hath come upon it, or the wasteful wind. 

The very earth is envious, and her arms 

Reach for the beauty that detained our eyes; 

Yea, it is lost, beyond the aid of charms, 

If, once within our grasp, we leave the prize. 

Thou traveller to the unknown Ocean's brink, 

Through Life's fair fields, say not, "Another day 

This joy I'll prove:" for never, as I think, 
Never shall we come back this selfsame way! 



60 



\ I \ V ' III U |M)« 

ot her heir: \$ fill] 

- 



II V1MI.K 

1 wjm ;^)C' , ^ gll 

• hide mc t>c tree with his trenure, 
:h ill thit made mirth, or give pleasure, 
hed sorn est. 

adc such is ran it his hest 

g or incisure. 

Sigh: letne 

the verge of the land. 

m this cliff thou may 5 t lean 
And hearken the while the gray sea, 

g ill day the bright str.i 
Mikes i I icb scattered shell, 

hcrehv I cede unto thee 
cool sylvan cell. 
All iround curtained with green — 
Live green of the evergreen tree; 
All above, frescoes divine, 
Shot in the changeable woof 

he magical music-swayed r 
All this, with its service, be thine." 






I was a simple guest, 

To think he could make such bequest, 

Or my hands with his treasure be crowned ! 
For soon, that the master was one, 

And the servant another — I found, 
Unfain at my bidding to run. 

The sea on the shingle did beat — 
No lute-tone I heard in the sound! 

The wind through the pine tops ran fleet; 
The stars through the pine-tops did shine; 
But I saw not the frescoes divine! 

Wherefore, I now understand 
None but himself can have seen 
How fair is the poet's demesne, 
Set well on the bourne of the land; 
And none but himself can have heard 
The sounds that his spirit have stirred! 



62 



mi 

Joined with child hood' i ample h 

»v — 

. 

the vringc ir, 

Sees the cherithed apple ict 

•: — 
I the tardy quii 4St 

Her shell-tinted flower to cast — 
Sees the down-bill lightly plum 
Where the golden disc hith bloor 

c the June-grass breaks 
As the sott breeze takc> 

he ripple ot the wheat 
Rises round her blessing tcct. 

the fleeting Perfect Hour, 
Hath from May and June he 
In the thicket she hath heard 
neal pipe ot* 

the dim- oodland dove 

. not hushed her plaint ot* 1< 
Yet she hears the fledgling tr 
its first matin note 






Full of wonder and amaze, 
Heard no more in riper days. 

Lo! the affluent Perfect Hour! 
All things feel her sovran power 
Swift across the vanward rose 
Tender flame of crimson blows, 
That no later bloom may share; 
Holiest holies centre there; 
In its heart a censer breathes, 
In its heart a passion sheathes; 
Passion into song must flower — 
Sing, all hearts, the Perfect Hour. 



BEYOND MEMORY 

'Tis not that I forget thee gone from here, — 
All things on earth are speaking still of thee; 

But thou — what sight or sound can bring earth near? 
Soul of my soul, canst thou remember me? 



6 4 



kD 

Before me, 

'. — 
BUcV jht, 

upon the \% burling 

At the tenth r- 

iuld not redeem* 

I l the gro 

ughtlcss a 
>tood like some old king di 
rone. 

I saw, against the haunted 
nail, belated bird dart by, 
:hc nest, 
i 
Nigh: -favored wings di 

r closelicr pressed. 






I saw, (deserted long ago) 

A cot with crannied roof sunk low 

And doors that stood ajar; 
Beyond, like ghostly taper's glow, 
Those rifted chambers searching slow, 

I saw the evening star. 

I saw — but all I saw without 
Still imaged forth the inner doubt, 

The dread, the restless goad, — 
The griefs, that in a hovering rout 
Compass that lonely soul about, 

Who takes The Evening Road. 



66 






I 

' Sing challr c height, 

vessels o( 
Th< 

the tool and the v to armi, 

II 

• clar 
"kIs ind the Brothers divine 
te through the dust of the battle shine — 
.e Brothers they swear, that who raiscth the 
>r the foe is upon us!" shall die — 
Be he priest of the temple, or bondsman, or lord, 
:hc warning abhu- 
In silent Amyclje! 

Ill 

In Silent Amyclse 
Now Fear is afraid and the voices or Fear 
Are quiet this many and many a year; 
>racle threats, no presage is heard, 
scan not the victim nor flight of the 
No pilgrim may eni lings of ill; 

c gate th'- lcr is still 

In silent L 

6? 



IV 

In Silent Amyclae 
One midnight the sound of a legion tread! 
All hear, but they speak not nor whisper their dread, 
Alike do they tremble — dastard and brave, 
From the sword and the torch swift runs the red wave- 
By mornlight a city all voiceless and drear! 
How art thou undone through thy scorn of all fear, 
Ah, silent Amvclae! 



68 



I Hi- LAND 

\ 4 ml 

iul we U 
1$ there, aiui 

ngl learn: 
ist, in glooming p e, 

And please the vs and h 

a h to see 
Innumerous piths chat 31 — 

iusc beneath the nooning tree, 
i there might wand >me pleasant rill; 

n through sun and shade they bent until 
They roddenl) to darks >me della would I 

ncre the pastoral pipes were pla\ 
The Shepherd of I^ost Hope e green brink 

Poured the m which the crowding 

would d: 






That Shepherd takes a tithe from every Hock 

In every land — the fairest and the best. 
He shelters them beneath the hollow rock; 

He folds the young and wayworn to his breast. 

But one shall wander east and wander west, 
Who thus hath lost his white and fairest hope, 

Yet never meet the darling of his quest, 
Not though he searched the wood and sunshine slope, 
Or down those music-haunted depths should dare to grope. 

Now, harkening to that unseen Melodist, 

This would we note: how brave so e'er the strain, 
We evermore the close and cadence missed; 

Nor die din happy languor the refrain, 

But even as those paths broke off amain, 
So all at once would cease the lovely sound! 

Yet, like a lapsing wind, it rose again, 
Elusive, borne from some remoter ground : 
Alas! naught in that land is with fruition crowned. 

For where the brooding bird sat yestermorn, 

And her mate fed her, warbling his delight 
There was at evening-time a cry forlorn, 

And quivering wings, and unreturning flight; 

While fragments, all of shelly blue or white, 
Were scattered on the ground beneath the nest; 

Or else, unbrooded, to the chill of night 
Those orphaned treasures lay, while the soft breast 
That cherished them was now in piteous crimson dressed. 



7o 



- 
irk n ess the rn, 

II those tCJ 

n ,: 
us, peerless Summer broke hei | 
All promise failed all hear: . c knew \s 

The egg uniju did the futile I 

\ ;^cs repeated there 

wished is the fabric In the 

oofed to heaven the palace buil' 
latched the gleaming marbl- 
Mature, and the workj 

is the man unto his bo re: 

words die oft 
:houghts defile J. av 

him, 

tears can be, he hath himself t< 
Long feeding on that musi im, 

Loosed from the sunken world of del! and grot. 
He is become enamoured of* his lot. 

hence, while others follow other clues, 
e care hath he — to reach the tuneful spot 
Where, freshened by Kivsian winds 2nd ci- 
The Shepherd or Lost Hopes a broken strain renews' 



-' 



TIMON TO THE ATHENIANS 

"But the roof is so low!" they said. 

He smiles in return, — "Is it so? 

Well, were it high as 'tis low 

(The roof that covers my head), 

I should look through it still to the sky!" 

"But the walls," they said with a sigh — 

"The walls of your house are so narrow, 

Fit only to cage in a sparrow!" 

"Yet I take, when I list to fly, 

A thousand-league journey in thought!" 

"On your table," they said, "there is naught 
But some bread and wild fruit from the waste." 
"But how, if the flavor I taste? 
Do they so whose dainties, far-brought, 
With the mere seeing can sate?" 

"But," they said, "here are none to wait - 
To heed — and to run, at thy call!" 
"The master is servant to all, 
Being slave to the master's estate; 
If myself J can serve, I am free, — 
Say this to your masters from me." 



72 



W I I 

I 

\CTC £00 

:i| 
\1v gates an 
re goo: 

n those 

II 
ere goctt thi 

judge the souls tl 
•udgc wl i 

••Fill back! The rod oi I will l* 

I best who do 

in 

,erc gocst th( 

" To sec the laughing 
I go tor respite — sorrow haunts my hca: 

. • i I am cloj ed with ra 

IV 

)u goest to mold thy lite, I Well, go: 

But whosoever thou shah take to tri. 
vheresoevcr thou shalt turn thee — kr. 
I Life itself shall mold thee, in the e: 



73 



A KNIGHT ERRANT OF THE SOUL 

From many cups have I drunk deep delight, — 
A favored guest where free the revel flowed; 

But sometime, either at the dead of night, 

Or when the first faint rose of morning glowed, 

I heard the Call, howe'er so far, so light, 
That bade me rise and take the lonely road; 

"Pass on," it sighed — "pass on!" 

Or if with joy, in dreadless arms, 1 spurred 

To fields where honor's edge is kept from rust; 

Or if the beating heart of love I heard, 

Pillowed upon a breast all warmth, all trust, — 

Mid clash of swords, or throb of hearts, I heard 
The rising whisper of the Underword; 

"Pass on," it said — "pass on!" 

Or when before the altar I would lift 

My prayer for grace which erring men implore 

(And as their need, so measured is the gift), 
Ere yet my soul received of heavenly store, 

Ere yet had holy lips pronounced my shrift, 

The goading Voice was heard, oft heard before: 

"Pass on," and still — "pass on!" 



74 



This was the \ 4 

But 

Mine || 

I have I dim ight — 

.ink the t>ead, nor ever touched the lees! 
I, nearing now the low <'.»><: D1 sight, 

I shall n degree*; 

ieetn aright. 
The \ me with steadfastness decrees: — 

lith, "Pasi 






AS I WENT FORTH 

As I went forth 
That morn, they but forgot to show 
The signal from the great hall door 
They turned them to their task or play; 
They but forgot, — no more. 

As I went forth, 
The lamp within the windowed tower 

That eve they but forgot to set; 
Yet wherefore doubt, when well I know 

(True hearts!) they love me yet? 

As I go forth, — 
As I go forth upon that road 

Where none are passed and none are met,- 
Will it be so! Will they still love, 

And will they but forget? 

As we go forth, 
Such wistful looks we backward throw, 

To see if yet their signal flies; 
For thus 'twill be when we have said 

The last of all good-bys. 



7 6 



d — 

But the grOttfl I ^rcw « pear", at last. 
xnd go, 

The pear b 



THK D 'Alo^ 

liken not the diamond to a star, 
Nor to a dewdrop ck the one 

Looks down a soul beloved, though gone I 
the other are the tears that run, 
I 

liken not the diamond to a star, 
Nor to a dewdrop flickering in the sun — 

The diamond keen knows neither Love noi ( i 



CAPRICE OF THE MUSES 

Of old the Muses sat on high, 

And heard and judged the songs of men; 
On one they smiled, who loitered by: 

Of toiling ten, they slighted ten. 

"They lightly serve who serve us best, 
Nor know they how the task was done; 

We Muses love a soul at rest, 
But violence and toil we shun." 

If men say true, the Muses now 

Have changed their ancient habitude, 

And would be served with knitted brow, 
And stress and toil each day renewed. 

So each one with the other vies, 

Of those who weave romance or song: 

"On us, O Muse, bestow the prize, 
For we have striven well and long!" 

And yet methinks I hear the hest 

Come murmuring down from Helicon: 

"They lightly serve who serve us best, 
Nor know they how the task was done! 



78 



R WK \S\ 

might hive painted tha 
1 might have w rittea tl 
N 

A\ done — to 'I 

You might have fbughl in the rangm 
1 might hive itruck *t ton! Wrong: 

o 'long! 

So 'long, ind into the 

ng — 
Foil to the tew and the splcn 

All's done and well done — so 'long! 

a$ we past, wc will pledge them — 

The bold, and the bright, and the strong 

tlack env ) 

I done and well done — so 'long! 






THE FLUTES OF THE GOD 

Oh that I knew where to find thee, — to fall, and 

encompass thy knees, — 
Thou, as thou art, austere, with thy turrets and dun- 
geoning keys, 
Thou, with the frondage of oak, that enshadows thy 

grave, straight brows! 
I would cling to thy knees till thou wouldst absolve the 

Corybant's vows, — 
Even his vows, who was mine, ere the voice from the 

forested hill, 
With the flutes and the cymbals, he followed, and them 

he followeth still! 
He follows, he dreams, with wide eyes all bare of the 

curtains of sleep; 
He heeds not the dawn on the height, nor the shadows 

as upward they creep, — 
If the arrows of winter be forged, or the flame of the 

summer be fanned! 
He feels not the thong of the priest, nor the blade in 

the lean, wild hand; 
Crimson the thorn-set path where the foot unsandaled 

hath trod. 
He stayeth for none he shall meet, — he hears but the 

flutes of the God ! 

The mother that bore him, the father that guided afield 

his young feet, 
Into the wilderness journey, they come to thy desolate 

seat. 
At the foot of a fir tree they find him. Trembling, 

their knees and their speech: 

80 



i ii the 

b; 

rv gust; 

i list . 

hou mayst bet 

:hc waste, and the sigh 
tree • car. 

■ 
tor: 

spcikcth? I heir — I heir but 
the flutes of the G 

I wa> Am maiden betrothed, and •■ Mid, 

••thou shilt go, 
Shalt touch his dead he. ifc, and his eyes shall 

regain their lost glou 
Breithlcss, I trod the lone ways. Among the mad 

priests, is he ringed, 
I beheld whom I loved, but ah! I beheld him how 

changed, how cstraiv 
I had drawn him apart from their throng, I had whispered 

the words that are cha 
Had touched his deid heirt into lite, and pillowed his 

head in mv a- 

arther md farther aloof, to the notes of wild n 

he trod. 

o follows?" he cried, — "who follower 1 hear 

but the flutes of tin I 






Oh that I knew where to find thee! Whether, 'mid 

autumn's increase, 
With the young of the year around thee, thou givest 

them plenty with peace; 
Or whether, dark-thoughted, remote through the waste, 

thy deity roves, 
And the eyes of thy lions glance fire, in the twilight of 

dells and of groves. 
Bright are their eyes impatient, the blast of the desert 

their breath; 
Who crosseth their path, without thee, shall surely be 

doomed unto death. 
Yet, mother of gods and of men, of the broods of the 

earth and the rocks, — 
Thou, Berecynthia, hear! by thy love, by his dark 

flowing locks, 
By the smile on his lips, by the dream in his eyes, thou 

sendest at will, 
By the soft-drawn sigh while thou watchest his slumber 

amid the high hill! 
Thine Atys thou hast, though a sleeper; the care from 

his forehead is smoothed; 
But he whom I love never sleeps, and his wild eyes 

never be soothed! 
Give him but peace and my arms, and quiet supreme, 

in the end; 
Bid some old fir tree his branches above us in shelter 

extend; 
Then, the life to the air, the frail substance that held it 

awhile to the clod: 
So shall he waken and madden no more to the flutes of 

the God! 



82 



PHI Vi 

m that soul in 
to tl 

brought 

I rememl 
the • 
Heed th rcc rammei ran, the I 

s?— 
It" my entreat them, :t iear but the flutes 

I 

even am I, ( hou plcadcst a lo^ng cause! 

• — I hear but the 
I 
:iou! the I he Laws is to me as the 

flutes of the I i 

Thus spake that sou! incorn; : 
was qua- 
an has stood forth without fear — has chosen the dark 

deep draught — 
raken the lone one way, nor the path of dishonor has 
trod — 
Behold! he, too, hears but the voice the 

flutes of the ( ! 






A VISION OF BRAVE MEN 

A vision of brave men. From eldest time, 
Of alien speech, of every race and clime! 

Their deeds of valor flow and shine, 

Like wind-blown torches in long line. 

A vision of brave men. These were, who marched, 
At great Cambyses' hest, through deserts parched. 
The driving sands make dark the air, 
The drifting sands their couch prepare. 

A vision of brave men. These were, whose swords 
By gulf and pass repelled the Persian hordes; 

Nor can the hero sleep for thought 

Of deeds Miltiades has wrought. 

A vision of brave men. Toward Palestine 
These strive, pale faces lit as from the shrine; 

The cross goes down before their eyes. 

They sleep, — to wake in Paradise. 

A vision of brave men. The Six who came 

(Round their strong necks the hempen cord of shame), 

And of the conqueror lowly craved 

That their loved city might be saved. 

A vision of brave men. Closed in by craft, 
These drink from Mexique waters death's dark draught. 
In the still Lake they clash and fall — 
Trist Night receives them one and all! 



8 4 



Th* 

on of" bra \ 
Were bands — 

M\ latest birth 
godlike, m earth! 

ivc men. I ": e hadow plain 
Resounds to i 

I deeds oi 

in long lu 

M were, whose cause the CJod of" Battles crowned 
These were on whom fa H I "d; 

But all i^ got, 

Save that in right thev faltered not. 

"There is one language of the brave," u 
fought! l\ilor Bvfi on, t/to' cauifs 
There is one kindred of the brave, — 
However Wi fought, y tw<:- 



THE COMPASS 

Touch but with gentlest finger the crystal that circles the 

Mariner's Guide — 
To the East and the West how it drifts, and trembles, 

and searches on every side! 
But it comes to its rest, and its light lance poises only one 

self-same way 
Since ever a ship spread her marvellous sea-wings, or 

plunged her swan-breast through the spray — 
For North points the needle! 

Ye look not alone for the sign of the lode-star; the lode- 
stone too lendeth cheer; 

Yet one in the heavens is established forever, and one is 
compelled through the sphere. 

What ! and ye chide not the fluttering magnet that seemeth 
to fly its troth, 

Yet even now is again recording its fealty's silent oath — 
As North points the needle! 

Praise ye bestow that, though mobile and frail as tremu- 
lous spheret of dew, 

It obeys an imperial law that ye know not (yet know 
that it guideth most true) ; 

So, are ye content with its fugitive guidance — ye, but the 
winds' and waves' sport! — 

So, are ye content to sail by your compass, and come in 
fair hour to your port ; 

For North points the needle! 



86 



rrrvi, and 

l 
■ l 
\1 

heart's 

attain I v. 
whence given unknown), 

I to tent the king bick 

to DO 
The error rith erring 

mv allcgian, 
I follow n . — and look! when 

r doubt runneth high — 

North points the needle! 



»7 



VOYAGERS 

Cras ingens iterabimus aquor 

Comrades, over the deep without name, — 
Over the deep, unwitting we came! 
Never one knew from whence he sailed, 
And the hither shore from his sight was veiled 

With the surging vapors of sleep; 

And to-morrow, to-morrow, to-morrow, 

Again we shall sail the great deep. 

Sweet is the shore where we tarry a day. 
Let us live as brave men what time we shall stay, 
The wreath of the poplar thereof be the sign ; 
And weave in the myrtle, all ye who resign 

Your hearts to some fond one to keep! 

But to-morrow, to-morrow, to-morrow, 

Again we shall sail the great deep. 

Fair was the morn, and the noon, fleeting fast; 

But the sky of the undertime grew overcast ! 

As the leaf of the poplar, that shakes in the wind. 

So grief, for a time, may oppress the firm mind, 
Nor the hero be shamed, though he weep; — 
But to-morrow, to-morrow, to-morrow, 
Again we shall sail the great deep. 

Ye have wrought as ye wrought, and the day is far spent, 
Well have ye borne whatever fate sent: 
Now, wine for the even, and, lying at ease, 
The glimpse of red sails on Hesperian seas; 

Then the shadows of night, — then a sleep, — 



LofC. 



88 



!0-roorr< 

n we are on the £•- 

-adea, the: 
The treasure thev hiu : on 
The' 

• 

But the tides, a , sweep, — 

re on the grea* 

To-morrow - and arte- 

What isle or what mainland the tea shall disi lose, 

r c\ a have :>een, 
The sigml an 

en, at last, on the strand we shall le 
But to-morrow, to-morrow, to-mor: 
Again we arc on the great deep. 



8 9 



PALINGENESIS 

I dwelt with the God, ere He fashioned the worlds with 

their heart of fire, 
Ere the vales sank down at His voice or He spake to the 

mountains, "Aspire!" 
Or ever the sea to dark heaven made moan in its hunger 

for light, 
Or the four winds were born of the morning and missioned 

on various flight. 

In a fold ofHis garment I slept, without motion, or knowl- 
edge, or skill, 

While age upon age the thought of creation took shape at 
His will; 

Sleeping I lay by the right hand that framed it — this 
wonderful earth — 

Nor heard I the stars of the morning, chanting its anthem 
of birth. 

Part had I not in the scheme till He sent me to work on 

the reef. 
Nude, in the seafoam, to clothe it with coralline blossom 

and leaf. 
Patient I wrought — as a weaver that blindly plyeth the 

loom, 
Nor knew that the God dwelt with me, there as I wrought 

in the gloom. 

Strength had I not till chiefdom supreme of the waters he 

gave; 
r oyous I went — tumultuous; the billows before me I drave — 



90 



Myself m a surge of :hr v-j ,.,,., impede I hi the 

•to: 
Nor knew thai the (iov! || me. thr 

form. 



'.ight plumr<, he 
i — 
the holloa quill as the 
I I git he: 
home, at his w<>: 
Nor knew that 1 ;h me clothed in the gu 

a t 

d not the earth till on plains unmeasured He sent me 

to r 
:astc of the sweetness of grass and the leaves of the 

summer 
ihdter He hollowed the cave; fresh springs in the rock 

But I knew not the (»od dwelt with me that ranged as a 

beast of the field. 
Foresight I had not, nor memory, nor vision that sweeps 

in the skies, 
he made me man, and bade me uplift mv marvelling 

c\ 
My hands I uplifted — my cries grew a prayer — on the 

gTecn turf I knelt. 
And knew that the God had dwelt with me wherever of 

old I had dwelt! 






Wild is the life of the wave, and free is the life of the 
air, 

And sweet is the life of the measureless pastures, unbur- 
dened of care; 

They have all been mine, I upgather them all in the be- 
ing of man, 

Who knoweth, at last, that the God hath dwelt with him 
since all life began! 

My heritage draw I from these — I love tho I leave them 

behind; 
But shall I not speak for the dumb, and lift up my sight 

for the blind? 
I am kin to the least that inhabits the air, the waters, the 

clod; 
They wist not what bond is between us, they know not 

the Indwelling God! 
For under my hands alone the charactered Past hath he 

laid, 
One moment to scan ere it fall like a scroll into ashes and 

fade! 
Enough have I read to know and declare — my ways he 

will keep, 
If onward I go, or again in a fold of his garment I sleep! 






92 



II IK MIS 

4 lethal 

I made a Jar. 

i guiding 
Mv link- • — 

Mine OTOCI ruih into the rushing night. 



SHIELD MB, DARK NUF 

eld me, dark nurse, — outw undone! 

Shield me from memories sweet or bitter 'neath the sun; 
From glance ot" scorn, tor love's long gaze, from pity's 

tear, 
Shield me alike from blame, from praise, from hope, 

tear! 
Shield me, dark n h charm and woven pace 

surround, 
Shield me from sight, from sound — from drear 

or sound ! 






Mr. Badger's New List 






SIKR \l. LITKRATl 



PRY 



'./. Th*mss t 1 2. m 

. 
7 .-\ M. .1 

D 15 Kin.., In A' no. , 

//. M. I 

A Rkd hv rill Rr. ' {ini a Woodward Clou. I.oo 

i.oo 

()., I .oo 

Till ' dliam E. Ingersoll, 16 mo., . O.75 

Th Spofford, c. ;<> 

PL/ 

Maximii . ' Lee Mastft 1 1.50 

MosEb, by Charts // : .< \ Brown, 8 .... 1 . I | 

PICTION 






The Cult of the Purple Ron« A Phase ot I 

Shirley Everton Johnson, 12 mo., 

Tta Lost Br ;jr/r; Jf. //<;//, 8 1.25 

A Romaj 1 .00 

Caramb ravagoosc, 4to., ...... 1.00 

Car . 2 mo., °-75 

; . . . 

Threads of Life, by Clsrd Shtrm—d Rolling 16 mo.. . 0.50 

Richard I 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




012 226 517 1 










